


Getting Free

by fogsrollingin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dean Winchester, Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Parental Negligence, Sibling Love, Teenchesters, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, no physical abuse though, parental emotional manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fogsrollingin/pseuds/fogsrollingin
Summary: Sam thinks about his family and recalls a particularly traumatic memory that left a timeless imprint on him... which leads him to make a rather timeless promise to himself. Sam's 14, Dean 18.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 23
Kudos: 126





	Getting Free

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote & published this fic on FFnet Sep 17, 2014. A reader recently reviewed it on there and mentioned it was still a relevant character sketch-kinda piece for Sam. S9E7 Bad Boys (which aired the year prior to my writing this fic) and/or S14E13 Lebanon.
> 
> I reread it with that in mind and... yeah! 😂 Go figure I tend to like what I write, hahaha. 
> 
> Anyway, I figured I'd x-post to AO3. And on Sammy's birthday, no less! Happy 37, my beloved fictional sweetbeanpole 🥳️🤗

Chapter 1

Sam was fourteen and had begun that age-old maturation process of looking at his brother with a more objective perspective than he ever had before. The hero worship was holding - to a degree. It helped that Dean was _actually_ a hero, saving more lives with their father than most of the firefighters or policemen in the small towns they traveled to. It was still warped though, Sam had started to realize, but he put that more on their father than Dean.

Dad was motivated by vengeance; he hunted to kill monsters... and the stakes just happened to get higher if there were innocent lives in the mix. Sure, Dad always pulled the "innocent lives are depending on us" card whenever Sam questioned things - and Sam had to admit it was the best argument he had - but now that he was older he knew the word to describe his father when he used it: disingenuous.

Dean, on the other hand, talked a good game with his dad but Sam knew there were other - better - reasons why he did what he did. To Dean, hunting was a lifestyle. He saw no competition between a day at the beach and a night of grave desecration like his father did. Whenever Dad went with them to stuff like that - just one day of acting like a normal family - he'd have them sparring the next day or get moody while he researched or sometimes he'd just take off the next morning leaving them nothing more than a note and some money. Sam hadn't known if it was guilt or bitterness or a mix between the two but whatever it was, he and Dean had learned fast to exclude him on those kinds of activities lest they wanted an irritable, self-loathing patriarch roaming around.

About four months back though Sam had come to a revelation that he'd hated - just because it made so much sense - on one of those "normal family" days. Their father had come with them to a county fair in Iowa. Dean had been bothering Sam to go mostly but all at once Dad just stood up from his hunched-over position at the small table in their motel room, stretched, and said he was up for it as well. Dean's eyes had lit up and Sam had been hard pressed to refuse after that.

He'd wandered around the fairgrounds, practically attached to Dean at the hip now that their father was watching, and let Dean's goofy enthusiasm for the activities and contest prizes cross over into him.

Dean had just won in the shooting gallery contest and was asking the pretty girl that'd been runner-up what stuffed animal she wanted when Sam had turned to look for his father. He was standing farther back, leaning against a tent pole, just watching the passers-by. He was shadowed by nothing yet it was there; his jaw set as he darkly observed the smiling, happy faces of carefree civilians eating cotton candy and pushing strollers.

Looking back to Dean's charming grin as he handed the pretty girl a stuffed penguin and flirted, it hit Sam: their dad saw these people as those he might fail to save where Dean saw them as people he could save.

Dad thought of these people like Mom; Dean saw these people as Sam. And it all stemmed back to Dad having lost Mom and Dean having saved Sam the night of the fire nearly thirteen years ago.

After that moment of clarity, Sam had spent a long while trying to figure out what _his_ "complex" was; after all, if Dean and Dad had one, he probably had one too. After a lot of introspection Sam finally had to come to the conclusion that he hadn't _been_ scarred by the event; he barely remembered it. His only complex was that he approached the subject of hunting monsters with a level head and rational mind. His dad and brother treated "the truth" like some sacred secret clouded in mystery and darkness whereas Sam came to terms with it like he came to terms with the concepts of genocide and terrorism. Growing up knowing about it had rendered it a mundane aspect of reality; an opt-in or opt-out kinda deal.

Put simply, his dad's choice to become a hunter after the fire and discovering monsters was just as absurd to Sam as, say, a guy who didn't know street gangs existed, lost his wife to them, learned more about them, and then decided to travel the country on a quest for vengeance against all murderous street gangs.

Like, _okay_ , but _maybe_ Dad could've gone a more balanced route, especially given the fact that he had an infant and four year-old son to think about.

Sam didn't really ever explain this perspective to Dean or their father... but it was getting pretty obvious. Sam picked his battles as best he could but he always found himself accidentally razing the mystique of their situation down to the ground: they were poor, constantly in danger, no outside support networks of friends or family, transient, always sustaining injuries, and Dad _was_ , objectively, at _least_ a negligent parent.

In normal society, there was no functional comparison to the way they were being raised. Hell, there were laws _against_ the way they were being raised: why else did they skip town every time they mentioned a teacher had looked at their bruises or injuries a beat too long?

Whenever Sam brought this up, Dad and Dean would dismiss it: "They just don't know. They don't understand the things we have to do to keep them safe."

If Sam had a "wrong" button to push, he'd drown them both out for as long as it took for them to shut up and listen. _EHHHH wrong_ : Dean and I don't actually deserve to be getting those bruises, fractures, broken bones (or worse), Dad. _EHHHH wrong:_ Dean had only initially opted in to hunting because he was scared you'd die without backup, Dad. _EHHHH wrong_ : I'd be safer and more protected by society's laws than I am with you, Dad. With you, I literally get attacked by nightmares. With you, I have scars that won't ever go away. With you, I'm scared all the time.

His only saving grace - the only psychological ballast he had - was Dean. Sam figured this out the hard way in May of ninety-six. Dean had to stay behind to complete a hunt when Dad had gotten a tip from Caleb something nasty was brewing in a neighboring state. Dad had decided to take Sam with him, figuring that it'd leave Dean with fewer distractions to complete the simple salt and burn. Sam had been worried but Dean had promised he'd be fine - he'd catch up with them in like two days tops.

Sam remembered waving at Dean through the back window of the Impala and Dean waving back, smiling reassuringly in the parking lot.

That was the last Sam saw of his brother for a month.

Apparently it hadn't been such a simple salt and burn. When Dean successfully burnt the bones of the first spirit, he'd accidentally triggered a second spirit - the first one's boyfriend - into an unfathomable rage across an entire campsite.

So, Dean stayed longer to research the boyfriend's remains... which was pretty damn hard to do because the guy was completely undocumented. A year later when the movie Titanic came out Dean swore up and down this case had been like these spirits' exact story - only on land. Dean had finally figured it out though. He'd nailed the potter's field down and had practically set up camp there - desecrating about four different graves that all could've qualified as the boyfriend.

Dean had come home to Sam exhausted but accomplished. Dad had been proud of him. And Sam... Sam had been ready to walk right up to CPS and let them take him away.

Because while Dean had been hunting, so had Dad. And without Dean, Dad didn't have backup. And like Dean, Sam couldn't handle the thought of their dad going out there alone.

* * *

Chapter 2

Sam, having just turned an uncelebrated thirteen a week and a half ago, found himself freezing cold out in the woods, silver bullets locked and loaded, waiting where Dad had stationed him. He tried to pretend Dean was with him, messing with him, lightening the mood, but Dad's last-minute drills in the car on the way kept interfering: _if you've got a shot, take it, but aim steady and sure because if you miss it'll just piss it off more_. _You do what I say at all times. You do not deviate. If you do you might be costing us both our lives, Sam. Before you shoot, always warn first. Don't-"_ and on and on and on.

Sam wasn't sure if he was shaking from the cold or the sheer terror he felt knowing he could be the scale tip between life and death for them.

Sam hadn't known at the time but it'd been like the universe strove for some kind of sick symmetry: just as Dean's hunt had its own unexpected twist of doubling danger, so had theirs'.

Dad lured the werewolf downhill and shot the thing in its heart as it came barreling towards him, its momentum temporarily disabling its ability to angle out. Sam, safely ensconced at the top of the ridge, waited for his father's signal. All clear, he stood up quietly and picked up his pack containing the kerosene and matches.

On his way down a second werewolf appeared ten feet behind him. Dad's shout to get down was overridden by its rabid, furious howl as it charged.

Sam was good. In one graceful move he unlocked the safety on a smooth pivot and took his shot.

Straight to the heart.

The werewolf let loose with an ungodly sound... something between a man's anguished scream and a dog's high-pitched wheeze.

In that moment, Sam froze, silent panic gripping his heart. Had he just killed a defenseless animal? The thing whimpering and crawling towards him now - was that evil? The scream hadn't sounded malicious; it sounded hurt and pathetic and in need of help.

Sam should have ducked and ran - should have listened to his father yelling himself hoarse from below - but instead Sam watched his kill solicitously, trying to make out in the dark what he'd shot, and the last remnants of the dying creature's claw tips finally came close enough to slash clean across his chest and stomach.

There was a lot of red after that. And a lot of darkness _._

Sam opened his eyes to his dad's pale, panicked face looking down at him as he was rolled through hospital corridors on a gurney. People shouting and directing medical orders over him. The florescent lights on the ceiling flashing past, making him dizzy. Sam begged for Dean through tears while Dad held his hand. Then he blacked out again.

...

Sam came to while he was getting stitches, groggy with painkillers, and asked - then pleaded - for Dean. The doctor looked at his father, obvious poker face plastered on, and told him he was leaving the room to get more supplies.

Dad watched the doc leave then crushed Sam's hand in his grip so he'd look at him.

"Sam, I'm only going to say this once," he whispered, lips in a tight, severe line of repressed anger, "stop asking for your brother right now, do you understand me? I don't want to hear it. I wouldn't be surprised if the doctor's calling CPS right now. Jesus Christ. Hold my hand tighter - no - like you do with Dean. Harder. Good. Stop crying - you're fine. I said you'd fallen and skidded across a fucking rake - you're not supposed to be this upset, Sam. Pull it together, you understand?"

Sam shivered on the table, his half-stitched lacerated torso in full view and on fire, jerkily nodding along as he listened to his father putting the fear of God into him at the mention of CPS and ordering him to act according to all the lies.

Sam managed to stop crying but the quiet, strained tears remained, leaking down and getting his hair wet. Dean would've wiped them away. Dean wouldn't have treated him like this. Dean would have told him everything was all right and found him ice chips and used a washcloth to clean him off while calling him a pretty pretty princess and making him - and the doctor, probably - laugh despite everything.

Sam didn't want to pretend anymore; he wanted Dean.

...

Besides killing his first monster, Sam also spent his first night alone in a hospital that night. Dean never left his side - which meant his side had never been left - in the hospital before. But Dad just salted the windows, laid down some wards, and said he'd be back in the morning. Sam didn't dare ask him to stay.

Alone and feeling more vulnerable than he ever had before, it'd dawned on Sam that, in the suturing room, Dad had been demanding he act like he was the father Sam wished he was... or else he'd lose the poor excuse of a father he actually had.

Sam cried himself to sleep thinking about that, desperately missing his big brother.

...

Dad smuggled him out of the hospital the following morning even though Sam had been admitted for longer so the doctors could prevent infection. He gave Sam a sock to bite down on to muffle his sobs as he folded him into a wheelchair and again at the transfer from the wheelchair to the Impala... and again to the motel.

Once Sam was in bed, Dad immediately left to fill the prescriptions - but not before giving Sam his version of what'd happened last night and what exactly Sam had done right and wrong. A classic, no-nonsense debriefing to a soldier, a gentle pat on the shoulder, a _shake it off, son, you did... fine._

That small delay packed in enough disappointment to fill the entire room. Then the door shut.

Despite the painkillers coursing through him, Sam ended up crying with pain as he pushed up and staggered the short two-step distance to his father's journal next to the TV. Dean's most recent phone number was there: clear digits on the back page with the motel name and room number.

Sam called his brother, knowing the minute he'd hear his voice he'd break down but he just didn't care anymore. It rang and rang until the motel's automated recording came on: if he wanted to leave a message, he'd have connect to the office and tell it to staff.

Sam hung up.

...

A couple days later, Sam was mentally climbing walls, his fear and trauma twisting into hatred and contempt and the resolve to get away from his father as fast as possible once he was better. The man's comments as he researched hunts in the same suffocating, small motel room held mutual contempt: Sam's injuries were holding him back from moving on to the next case.

Sam bit back that Dad should just go and leave him. Dad replied that he normally _would_ if Dean was there.

One time Sam heatedly retorted he could take care of himself. Not missing a beat, Dad yelled "catch!" and pretended to toss Sam his water bottle. Sam's muscles tensed in anticipation and he gasped in agony as the stitches pulled. Dad watched for a second, eyebrows high and expression unimpressed, then turned back to his computer to let Sam get over it on his own. He'd made his point.

...

It was the fourth day Dad broke Sam. He was just sitting silently looking at a map and out of nowhere murmured that if Sam were doing better they'd be able to go check out this new hunt he'd just found about ten miles north of the common burial grounds Dean had said he'd be.

Maybe Dad thought it was just another potshot; maybe he thought Sam was faking the searing pain up and down his chest and stomach whenever he moved; maybe he just honestly didn't know how much Sam depended on Dean - to be honest, _Sam_ hadn't even realized how much he'd depended on his brother...

But Dad taunting Sam with Dean - like tying a carrot to a crippled horse - it got him more than anything else had.

Sam couldn't say anything in response to his father, just tried to swallow the lump in his throat and blink the tears away. If none of this had happened; if he'd just jogged back away from the werewolf, he'd be able to go see Dean now. He and Dad would be able to go find him and Dean would smile and give him a hug if Sam reached for one. Dean would talk to him and ask him questions and make him laugh. Dean would still climb into his bed after the nightmares he'd been having and wake him up and tell him the werewolf was gone and everything was okay and rub his back and promise he was safe.

Sam started crying and his Dad determinedly ignored it.

Sam tried swallowing over and over again to calm down enough to get his courage up and the words out. He finally got there, his voice high-pitched and pleading, as he struggled to get out of bed.

"We...we can go," Sam said feebly.

His father sharply turned around to look at him, fierce anger burning in his eyes.

" _What_?"

"We can go, I swear. I'm... I'm okay," Sam stuttered and gasped, tears and other messes leaking down his face as his body raged at him to stay still while his mind told him he couldn't go on like this. He just... he really needed his brother now. He'd do anything. He'd break every stitch on his body just to get back to him. He could handle the agony if he could just get back to Dean.

"Christ, Sam, lie back down - we're not going anywhere," Dad ordered, thoroughly dismissive and even a little disgusted at the sight of his sniveling son. He turned to face his research again and Sam broke into heavy sobs, dropping back down in bed.

"Please... please... I wanna go," Sam begged weakly.

Dad sighed impatiently and turned back to face his distraught son.

"Sam, I'm getting seriously concerned about your attachment to Dean here. You need to calm down, relax, heal up, and then you'll see your brother. But honestly if you continue to give me this attitude I'm really considering more distance between you and your brother would do you good."

Sam listened to the threat, fierce anxiety and dread now combining into the rest of his misery. He twisted away to cry into the pillow, terrified now to let his father hear his despair. His body still visibly shuddered - and strained the stitches - when he sobbed, but he tried his best. He couldn't let his father know how much he needed Dean now.

"Do you understand me?"

Sam tried to stay silent.

" _Sam_?!"

Sam nodded into the pillow and through sheer force of will he finally did quiet.

Sam never realized until now - right at that very moment - that _this_ was his true worst nightmare. It wasn't werewolves or poltergeists or even demons; it was a change of guardianship between his father and Dean that Sam had no control over; it was being raised by Dad.

"Good. I'm going out," Dad said suddenly, like he couldn't stand one more minute of this.

And he then he left.

For a long time.

Too long for a witness interview, too long for just dinner. Too long for anything other than a bar.

Sam's painkillers were on the small counter in the kitchenette; Dad had neglected to put it on the nightstand for him before he'd left. Half an hour later and Sam started spacing his sips on the water bottle because Dad hadn't refilled it.

Sam's pain scale ratcheted up from five to seven to nine as the hours ticked by. Nearing eight-thirty Sam had to drink the last of the water.

By nine-thirty Sam was in so much pain and dehydrated he'd done a complete one-eighty.

He found himself gasping prayers for his drunk dad to just please, God, come home.

* * *

Chapter 3

When Sam heard a key jiggling the door, he'd practically screamed.

"Dad! _Daddy_!" Sam cried. He'd stopped calling his father 'daddy' when he was six but he couldn't help the regression.

" _Sammy_!" Dean shouted and then his brother was there, wiping his sweaty hair back, looking into his eyes.

"Dean?" Sam trembled, reaching out for his brother. Dean took him, gently lifting him up into a delicate hug. Somehow he knew about Sam's injuries even though Sam knew Dad hadn't called to tell him. Dad _told_ him he hadn't informed Dean.

"Bud, what's wrong? What's going on?" He asked, equally as upset as Sam now even though he didn't understand.

Sam melted against his brother, waves of desperate relief crashing over him. Smiling through tears, he just let go and cried into Dean's chest, gasping between breaths, "I missed you," and repeating his brother's name.

"Christ, Sammy, I missed you too. What's wrong?" Dean asked, leaning Sam back a little to look into his eyes, his hand still cupping the back of his head. Sam just stared into Dean's eyes for a second, relishing the obvious love and affection he saw in them. He'd gone a full month without anyone looking at him like that. He'd been deteriorating slowly over the course of his time with Dad, eating less and numbing himself to too many things. He'd been on the verge of something that Dean's presence was quickly pulling him back from.

"Sammy," Dean pleaded. Sam blinked and looked around.

"Ah, um...the... my meds..." Sam stuttered. Dean's brows furrowed and looked to the nightstand. "Ki'ch'n Counter," Sam sniffed.

Dean twisted around further and swore when he saw it. He gave Sam a small squeeze, letting him know he was going to let go, and got up. Now that Dean was upright Sam could take a good look at him. He was fine: clean, strong and healthy, red-faced from the weather's chill outside...

Tears pressed out between his lids again and Sam, so used to it by now, didn't even bother to conceal them. His dad just ignored it, after all. In the short time he and his father spent together, Sam had lost any sense that he was in the company of anyone who gave a shit about him.

"You got water-?" Dean cut himself off as he turned back around to Sam. "Sammy, what the hell, man," he said, striding back to him and sitting down at his side. Sam shook his head, at a total loss for words, and looked down. A tear dripped off his nose before Dean pulled him into another hug and kissed his hair before smoothing it back again. Sam gagged, his pain and relief overwhelming him.

"Breathe, Sammy, c'mon, c'mon, easy," Dean coached, rubbing his back. He absently reached for the water bottle and came up short when the thing lifted up too fast. "Sam, how long you been out of water?"

Sam shook his head. Before he answered with words Dean was gone again - moving to the bathroom to refill it. He came back in a blink, propping Sam up and giving him a couple pills along with the bottle of water.

"Okay here - take this. Finish the whole thing too, Sammy," he whispered worriedly, watching Sam's face twist into further anguish and release even more tears.

Dad, Sam was sure, would call this "coddling" or "spoiling" him - and now, because of him... the way Dad had been with him - there was this unknown element of shame in being treated like this... but Sam _needed_ it. So he did as he was told - he'd do anything Dean told him to do - and when Dean realized Sam wasn't planning on taking a breath until he'd finished the entire bottle, he intercepted.

"Whoa okay-okay- _okay_ Sam, that's enough," he insisted, pulling the water bottle from him, "take a breather. You're okay, it's all right," he said gently. Sam wiped his tears away, only for them to be replaced with new ones, and Dean stepped in again.

He pushed himself into the cavity of Sam's hunched-over form and angled Sam to lean back against the arms he'd wrapped around him. Sam tensed, fearful Dean would pull the stitches.

"Shh, Sammy, relax, c'mon, you know I gotchya," he'd whispered, and Sam sniffed and nodded, letting Dean tilt him backwards so carefully he barely felt a twinge. Dean was slow and cautious for the rest of it too until all movement stopped and Dean was holding him across his lap, the side of Sam's head leaning against his shoulder. Sam was still trembling, insecure and weak. He ducked his forehead against Dean's neck and gripped the amulet.

"Everything's okay, Sammy. I'm right here. Take it easy," Dean murmured, starting to rock them back and forth on a smooth rhythm. Sam felt like crying all over again at the sound of Dean's soft voice - so grateful that his brother even existed. That someone loved him and felt scared for him and wanted to take care of him even when he was this hopeless and pathetic.

"I gotchya, you're okay, just relax," Dean continued, alternately carding his hand through Sam's hair and thumbing away stray tears. Sam's eyes were still watery but his cries had cut back. He hiccuped and sniffed a lot, trying to calm down. He was so elated to have Dean back but still so demoralized he wasn't even sure if his happiness counted.

"Good work, good job, Sammy, it's okay, I gotchya, 'm right here," Dean promised quietly as Sam slowly went limp in his big brother's arms.

When Sam eventually stopped shaking and his cries tapered off into small breathy exhales, Dean leaned near Sam's ear and asked, "Better?"

Sam swallowed wetly but nodded, still sniffling, and Dean kissed his temple before leaning over and handing him another Kleenex. Still held up by and leaning against Dean, Sam took the tissue with both hands and pressed it against his eyes to squeeze the tears out then blew. His face was beet red, eyes bloodshot, his entire body and mind exhausted... but he felt better.

Everything had been falling apart - the hunt, his father, Dean's absence - it all felt like everything had been pointedly undermining him, weighing him down and forcing a kind of degradation _in him_ that he hadn't ever known before. While he'd been with Dad, he'd actually _felt_ his personality changing and shifting into something darker and more full of hateful rebellion than he'd ever thought he'd be capable of.

But now... just having his brother back... it was all starting to lift. Seeing himself through Dad's eyes had crushed him and was twisting him into something... but with Dean it was all suddenly blurring into the background; his real guardian's presence and love sliding into the forefront and bolstering him back into who he'd been before.

"Now, you wanna tell me what's going on? I got off the bus like an hour ago - ran into dad at the bar next to the station-"

Sam jerked up, his eyes wide, then cringed and gasped from pulling his stitches.

"Sam! Jesus, take it easy-"

Sam struggled to get out of Dean's arms but succeeded only because Dean realized what Sam wanted and started to help.

"Dean - you don't understand - he can't see us like this!" Sam said urgently, trying to untangle himself.

"What? Sam, what're you even talking about?" Dean asked, bewildered. He pushed his hands under Sam's back and legs and gave a quiet one-two count before shifting Sam's whole body over to the side of the bed. "Damn, have you lost weight-?"

"No! I- Dean, Dad's saying I'm too attached to you-"

Dean snorted.

"It's not _funny_!" Sam said hotly. "He's gonna put you on more solo hunts if he thinks I depend on you too much-"

"-No he's not-"

"Yeah, Dean, _he said so_!" Sam nearly screamed, obviously terrified. He needed his brother to understand before Dad came home. They couldn't get separated more. Sam couldn't do this again.

Dean just rolled his eyes and plopped down on the side of the bed next to him.

" _Dean_!" Sam squeaked, appalled that his brother wasn't taking him seriously.

"Sam, don't worry about Dad," Dean said calmly, lifting his arm. When Sam didn't move in, he put it around his little brother's shoulders anyway. "He won't do that, okay?"

"He would. You don't... you don't know-" Sam's voice trembled, eyes starting to prickle again.

"I know you shot and killed your first werewolf," Dean offered, suddenly quiet and kind, "Got nicked," he added, tilting his head and looking at Sam. Sam refused to meet Dean's gaze. "You okay?" his brother asked softly.

Sam pressed his lips together, his jaw clenching with weak determination not to cry even though his vision was blurring with tears. No, he wasn't okay... but he wasn't going to say it. Dean squeezed him lightly, pushing him closer against him.

"He's proud of you, y'know," Dean whispered. Sam huffed skeptically and shook his head. He wiped his eyes.

"No, Dean. He's not," Sam's voice cracked. "He.. He-"

"Look, stop - here," Dean took his arm off Sam and grabbed the phone console from the nightstand. He folded his legs under him and put it on the bed in front of them. "Watch this," he said with a wink and picked up the receiver. Sam held his breath and bit his lip, his eyes wide and worried. He eyed the numbers Dean punched in: the family's cell phone. They only had one and it mostly stayed with Dad.

Sam gulped nervously as Dean waited for Dad to pick up, smoothing the blankets out distractedly and then resting a reassuring hand on Sam's leg as he leaned forward to talk when Dad finally answered.

"Hey Dad... Yeah, good I guess. Sam's more banged up than you said," Dean said honestly and Sam flushed at the sound of sincere anger in his brother's voice. "Whatever. You should've told me," Dean replied testily to whatever his father had said. "All right. I get it, Dad. No I do," he said lightly, but Sam could just feel Dean's disdainful eye roll.

"Look I have a favor to ask you," Dean paused, then resumed. Sam's heart skipped a beat, anxiety gnawing at him. "After that hunt I need all the sleep I can get - Sam could too - and you snore when you're drunk," Dean said matter-of-factly but with that touch of charming humor. He listened for a second. "You do!" he argued jokingly, and Sam dared to hope.

"Look - let me get you another room. Right next door," Dean said fairly. Sam waited with bated breath.

"I got the money for it," Dean replied to whatever Dad had said, playfully defensive.

Sam, normally so reserved, lost any trace of that trait. He started bouncing the bed in excited anticipation. Dean glanced at him, grinning, then waved for him to cool it.

"Yeah. Okay, yeah just get the key from the front desk. It'll be waiting for you when you get back," he said lightly as Sam grabbed his hand and shook his arm, eyes bright and hopeful. Dean turned back to look at him as Sam continued pumping it up and down with enthusiasm. Dean's brows furrowed with feigned judgment; he couldn't hide the smirk of amusement at Sam's antics though. He put the phone between his head and neck and swiveled around to catch Sam's arms with both hands. Sam laughed quietly as Dean held him still, grinning as Sam futilely struggled under his restraint.

"Cool. 'Kay see you in the morning, Dad," Dean said, letting the phone go and leaning up on Sam, pushing him back further into the pillows.

"You're messed up on painkillers and antibiotics, Sammy - how you think this is gonna end up?" Dean teased, finally letting out a full laugh at Sam's determined face paired with such incredibly weak attempts to get free. Sam started tilting to the side writhing around but Dean pulled him up and let go, making sure he wouldn't pull any stitches.

Sam gleamed at his brother, exhilarated. Dean sighed, looking back at him, a certain sad resignation in his expression.

Sam could tell his brother was disheartened that he and his father hadn't gotten along without him... but Sam would never take it back.

Dad was a heartless tyrant. There hadn't been a single redeemer Sam could recall from his entire experience with him.

Dean bit his lip, looking over his brother, and there was something else in his gaze - something like disappointment. Sam's expression shifted to worry thinking Dean was disappointed in him until his brother spoke up.

"Is Dad watching your stitches?" he asked levelly.

Sam shrugged. Dean raised an eyebrow and Sam sighed and shook his head.

"Not that often. I'm fine though."

"Can I see?" Dean asked. They both knew it was a courtesy question. If Sam said no, Dean wouldn't press it immediately but he'd come back with the same request later. It was only a matter of time - but what mattered was that Dean always let Sam be in charge of that time. It was just one of the many things they'd worked out together over the years to make sure both were at ease giving and receiving help.

Sam was starved for attention; he had no interest in delaying any care Dean wanted to give him. He nodded and Dean smiled, getting up to grab the first aid kit. Sam moved to take off his t-shirt with Dean's help and before long Sam had been scooted down to lie on the bed. It took a few minutes for Dean to wash his hands and then he was back, hovering over Sam and slowly lifting the taped bandages off his torso to examine the stitches.

"Not bad," Dean frowned with approval as he scrutinized the wounds. "No inflammation, not much redness," Dean assessed, "Does it hurt?"

"Itches," Sam breathed. Dean smirked.

"I bet," he acknowledged, moving back to look at the underside of the bandages he'd peeled off. Dried blood, some seepage, and the prescribed ointment had mixed together on the gauze.

"It's gross-" Sam said, slightly embarrassed.

"-Nah, it's whatever," Dean shrugged good-naturedly, folding the bandages and throwing them into the trash. "Still," he added, "should've been cleaned and redone before now."

"Sorry," Sam murmured guiltily.

Dean paused to look at his brother, eyebrows raised.

"Not talking about you, dork," Dean said carefully. Sam looked up at his brother, his wide brown eyes still telegraphing shame and regret. For all the conviction Sam had about their father being a bastard, he still felt like he'd done something wrong. He felt at fault - like maybe Dad would've treated him differently if he'd said or done something else; been a different person. In the time he'd spent with Dad, he'd _wished_ he'd been a different person...

Sam licked and pursed his lips.

"I..."

"No," Dean interrupted, breaking the moment. "Let me do this. We'll talk once I'm not staring at your friggin..." Dean gestured at Sam's torso, "Freddy Krueger wounds," Dean joked, his grin returning as he settled down to apply aid. Sam gave a wan smile.

"'Tis but a scratch," Sam rasped, his smile breaking into a soft chuckle when Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. His eyes caught on something and he leaned forward to grab the motel's delivery options off the nightstand. "Here," he handed it to Sam, "look at this and tell me what you want for dinner while I do this-"

"I'm not hungry-"

"Shut up, Shakespeare," Dean snapped, smiling, pulling dry pads out of their packaging, "then order food I'll like because I'm hungry," he muttered constructively before leaning over Sam to pat along the stitches, removing any extra ointment or pus surrounding them. Sam held his breath on Dean's first touch and let out an exhale of relief when he realized Dean was so much more gentle than their dad.

"Y'all right?" Dean asked absently, still focused on his little brother's wounds.

"Yeah," Sam sighed quietly, looking past the delivery option waiver Dean had given him. "Dad was-"

"-Yeah I know what Dad's like," Dean said lowly, his voice dark with the knowledge of their father's bedside manner. He glanced up at Sam for a second to drive it home that Dean understood. When he was done with the padding he found the ointment they'd been using and started dabbing it lightly along his brother's stitches.

"Dad was in the Marines, Sammy," Dean explained quietly, "he doesn't really..." he trailed off, uncertain.

"No. It's something worse than that, Dean," Sam said, his voice stronger; he wasn't going to budge on this point if Dean tried to argue it.

Dean just sighed and ducked around to grab new bandages to place over Sam's stitches. It was telling that Dean didn't disagree.

When Dean finished with the bandages, Sam moved to sit back up but Dean stopped him with a light hand on his shoulder.

"Look," Dean said tiredly. Sam paused and looked up. "I'm not gonna make any excuses for Dad, okay?"

Sam swallowed nervously and suddenly felt conflicted at Dean's disclaimer: if there were no excuses for Dad - and there weren't if Dean wasn't going to make them - then... what...

Just then - it was like a flash of realization - it dawned on Sam that he _wanted_ to feel guilty.

He _wanted_ to think he'd been too stupid or weak or something - anything. Sam would take any suggestion or insult that Dean gave him that would let Sam believe that maybe the reason why Dad had been like that was _because_ of him... and not because it was just who Dad really was.

"Sammy, nothing that happened was your fault," Dean promised, his voice so sincere and earnest, breaking into Sam's thoughts and telling his little brother what he needed to hear even though it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

It drove deep into that part of Sam that was positive he'd been bad. Dean kept going.

"You did nothing wrong. You have nothing to be sorry for," Dean continued. Sam's jaw clenched, listening to Dean's reassurances, coming to terms with what Dean was saying: there hadn't been anything he could've done differently.

"It was never you. It'll never be you. It's just Dad, all right?"

It was all Dad. It was just who he was.

Sam could barely handle it.

"Dad hates me," Sam murmured, his eyes tearing up at the confession. Dean shook his head and came closer.

"No he doesn't-"

"- _Then I hate_ _him_!" Sam yelled through tears and Dean picked him up to give him a hug.

"No you don't," he whispered, holding Sam tightly, letting his brother's image of their father shatter.

The anger and resentment Sam felt towards Dad was too much - he'd never thought he'd feel this way towards any member of his family but this past month - the way Dad had treated him - it was a betrayal. Sam had trusted his father and every step of the way Dad had shown _nothing_ to show he deserved it. And Dean was telling him it wasn't him - it was just the way Dad _was_.

Eventually Sam quieted enough to hear his brother's words.

"-don't hold that grudge, Sammy. Just know. And let it go," Dean murmured as he rocked them, giving Sam all the time in the world to hold onto him and grieve over the last vestiges of hope he'd had that Dad could ever get better.

...

At some point Sam wiped his face and mumbled an apology. Dean leaned back and ducked down to look into Sam's still-watery eyes. Sam was a wreck but he pulled himself together enough to return the gaze.

"I'm never gonna be okay with Dad again," Sam sniffed, but his voice was steady and certain. Dean's expression softened with sympathy and regret.

"I won't leave you with him again. Not until you think you can handle it," Dean said, putting a palm against Sam's neck and leaning forward to kiss his forehead. "I promise. Okay?"

Sam nodded and reached out for another hug. Dean drew him in again and started to laugh as Sam just burrowed into him.

"Dude..." he said, smiling, rubbing Sam's back. Sam headed off any jokes by squeezing his brother. Dean got it and remained quiet, understanding that Sam needed this.

...

Dean left to book the room next to theirs' a few minutes later. Sam called in delivery pizza. They watched Tremors on UPN while eating and passed out in bed together.

That night Dean woke Sam up when his nightmare about the werewolf came, breaking the nightly cycle he'd been on. He said exactly the things Sam knew he would. Exactly the things Sam depended on him to say.

He'd switched the subject to Sam's birthday too, somehow at some point, and groggily promised Sam they'd go out all day to celebrate "in a huge museum or library or some shit your embarrassing geeky nerd ass would love, all right?"

* * *

Epilogue

Sam was fourteen and had begun that age-old maturation process of looking at his brother with a more objective perspective than he ever had before. The hero worship still held - to a degree. It helped that Dean was _actually_ a hero.

But these days he was starting to realize Dean had barely had any choice at all. It was either "be a hero" or "dad might die" for his big brother. It was insidious and cruel...

But it was what it was.

The past was past.

Sam had done as Dean had told him that night: he let go of the animosity he'd felt towards Dad. Dean had been right that holding onto it, letting it simmer into hatred and anger, just destroyed him more.

But Sam never forgot the moment he really understood their father... the moment he really came to understand Dean.

His family _was_ dysfunctional... and Dean didn't even deny it. Dean let Sam come to the realization himself that night... and his only reassurance had been that he was still there, that he was going to get Sam through. Just like always.

Dean was paving the ground for Sam to eventually get free.

At fourteen, Sam swore to himself that one day he'd get Dean free too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave some snacks if you can spare the time. Kudos & comments are _delicious_
> 
> also come visit me over [on tumblr](https://fogsrollingin.tumblr.com/) if you want 💛


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